Love ON AZ
by Archea
Summary: Sherlock/John in four chapters and twenty-six stories. Angst, fluff, humour, drama. Slash, though not overly graphic,  perhaps a M rating for language in the next chapters. Written as a gift for IShouldBeOverThis. UPDATED chapter 2, H to M.
1. Chapter 1 A to G

**Disclaimer : **Sherlock belongs to MM. Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and a few others – I'd strongly advise collective baby-sitting in his case.

**A/N **: For IShoudBeOverThis, in due gratitude for being the writer she is.

**Love ON A-Z**

**1. A for Afghanistan**

Damn Mycroft Holmes to Inferno's ninth and lowest ring, the Home Office of traitors. Let him take a dive with his olympic IQ and high-ranking informants — and his warped brotherly concern, now clocking in at the worst possible time.

Thus John Watson's unspoken thoughts as he confronts his lover in the securized basement room where they have been cooped up for a month. Sherlock's shock-still face is belied by his eyes, burning a Bunsen blue, and the slightly higher pitch of his voice. « Liar. You said you would be stationed in Damascus ! »

John tries to keep his own voice at attention and fails. The month has taken its toll on him, summoning the hard dreams of before 221B — appropriately, it seems, since 221B is no longer their home. Their home is under the naked bulb that pours its thin blanched light on Sherlock's head, making it appear yet gaunter and more elongated, a mundane version of El Greco's saints whom John once saw at the National Gallery. « He would find me in Damascus » John answers with difficulty. What makes it difficult to speak, to look, is that the light is no longer an emblem of what takes place inside Sherlock's head. Say rather a pastiche of their new chiaroscuro existence, monitored from afar by a madman who shooes them ruthlessly from place to place, leaving a trail of loss in their wake. « He'll comb down anywhere, » says John « any place but this — there — it could be that he won't bother to look for me. » Why is he so reluctant to name names ? _Moriarty_. _Afghanistan_. « And find me. » Perhaps because they now know each other's minds by heart, so that names have grown dispensable. Truth, however, cannot be dispensed with. « And burn you_._ »

Sherlock has begun to pace the room, turning after every fifth or sixth step – even in flight, Sherlock has kept his long stride. « This, then, was your clever plan. Telling me you'd asked for another mobilization so I could focus again with you out of Mother Albion and catch our man. » Sherlock's voice revs up as it always does when he becomes unnerved. « And then — and then — jumping from the frying-pan into the fireline, hoping to come out unsinged once more in... what are the odds ? Two, three, six months ? A year, two years, five years ? You're giving me a poor idea of soldierly tactics, John. »

John is about to answer rather abruptly, but before he can sort out the medley of words clamouring to be named, Sherlock has caught up with him in his stride and is propelling them towards the all-purpose piece of furniture which serves as a couch, bed, typing table or Achilles' tent when one of them flares up under the stress. « All right, let's _make_ it a clever plan. » Couch it is, since Sherlock has tumbled both of them on its lap and is locking John's legs between his for good measure. « You're not going anywhere. On paper, yes, and Mycroft is arranging for you to be reported dead within a reasonable delay. This could work to our advantage. Or not. Thank your precious stars one of us can still work out probabilities. »

John too has learnt to exploit his size handicap unfairly. He slips a hand under Sherlock's mop of hair and bends the young gaunt face to his until their foreheads are touching. « You realize what this means, don't you ? I have no more job, no money, no time out. I'll be here all day, bickering about tea and fresh air, demanding to know what you're about. I'll be sullen, angry, scared, ignorant. I'll be _boring_. »

And Sherlock, as always, produces the right answer a moment before Mycroft's umbrella knob raps at their door.

« Yes » he smiles « the thought has crossed my mind. But, hell — better bored than burnt. »

**2. B for Blogs**

Anonymous wrote on 12.08.2010, 7 :34 pm – _Hello, dear! Thought I'd have a peep at your diary before I start on my roast pot. Very clever of you to deduce that man's bigamy from his nail cuttings though I really wish you wouldn't leave yours in the kitchen sink !_

Sherlock Holmes wrote on 12.08.2010, 7 :36 pm – Mrs Hudson, you are intruding upon my private public space. Stop it.

_But surely, dear, that's what the little box with « comment » is for? Or is this another Gentlemen Only sport ?_

How did you get here in the first place? Only last month, you believed a laptop was « that oh-la-la dance rich businessmen can order in night-clubs ». Did you pinch John's ?

_Dear me, no. The San Francisco police sent me Mr H's old PC after they'd given it a Spring clean-up, good thing too, you'd never guess what he'd stored inside, oh well you would. Then Mrs Turner showed me how to spin a web or whatever it is you young people call it today, and there we are !_

There _you_ are, right in the middle of your Ikebana class and it would take a nuclear blast for you to miss that so what the hell are you doing on my blog ?

_Language, young man. A neat brain is no excuse for a sloppy mouth._

You won't give me a clue, will you ? Can't be the rent, we're the 12th, can't be the vitriol in the tooth-glass, you wouldn't be in a condition to type, can't be OOOOOOH. My sloppy mouth. That's the clue, isn't it ? And it can only mean one thing — that you checked on 221B on your way to the Botany Club, came in while I was showering and spoke to your other tenant before he locked his door and became our resident hunger striker.

_I did, and you'd better follow suit. That remark of yours about John and the Sacred Cows of India was quite uncalled for and has seriously ruffled him. Now be a good boy, kiss and make up and I'll see to that milk tomorrow first thing._

Mrs Hudson ! There are twenty-eight visitors logged onto this page, I'll have to oh damn you're doing this on purpose.

_That's good deduction, dear. _

_Dear ?_

_DEAR ?_

_Now listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. This pot is due to simmer for another forty minutes and I'm not letting either of you off the hook. Go and apologize to your young man, and do it properly too._

Just did. What do you think took me so long ? No, no, no, for God's sake, don't answer that one.

_Properly _?

Sloppily.

_Oh_.

Oh indeed. Well, Mrs Hudson, congratulations on devising the ingenious concept of blockmail. Just remember – two can play the game. So bring over some of that pot, there's a dear geek, and I'll erase the whole page instead of devoting a new entry to the curious case of The Neighbour's Dog Who No Longer Barked At Night When He Was Given A Certain Sweater To Chew On.

**3. C for Contact...**

Christmas Eve looming up and one case still unsolved, courtesy of John H. Watson, M. D. Not routinely unsolved, Sherlock thinks, pulling up his scarf against the first dust of snow in Regent's Park, his favorite shortcut. For it is not in the nature of clues to decoy him and John, bless his generous heart, has led Sherlock on a one-track path rather than a wild goose chase. (Black head, white neck – these must be Canadian geese on the frozen lake.)

John is a natural sign-giver. Sherlock saw this from the start and, while indifferent to the charms of literature – though he retains a soft spot for Hamlet who entertained skulls and trusted that the sun doth move –, has recently treated himself to an orgy of John-reading. Watching John's cheekbones speak volumes when he is handing Sherlock a mug of tea and Sherlock's fingers try a swift experiment of their own on the handle a moment before it is released. Probing John's smile and eyes (and war-tempered nerves) when Sherlock's violin chases « Three Blind Mice » well into the night only to stumble on that damn C sharp for the eighth time running. And tuning his own ear to John's string of self-addressed curses when Sherlock is brought home texting merrily away with one hand because some Yard medic is sorting out the little bones in the other. A brother would curse Lestrade, as Sherlock has had occasion to witness, and a friend would curse him (a nice inference, that, pity he cannot – yet – record it in writing).

All the signs are here. But – ay, there's the rub : what next ? (In Regent's Park, the snow is ghosting the grey-green blades of grass at his feet.) _Touch him_ states the obvious, and Sherlock wants to believe that touch might... should... dammit, must be rewarding if only one of them could bring himself to enact payment. So far, neither has. It is ironical, really, that while John's medical practice has made touch a second nature to him, he should babble and recoil like a maiden aunt when circumstances bring them at close quarters. Whereas Sherlock, who doesn't give a damn about people talking, finds it easier to flog a dead body than hold a live man's hand.

It's his own fault, agreed. (Sherlock breathes in the cold clean air as if it could top nicotine for clearing his John-addled mind.) For the past ten years, he has treated his body as another violin, grooming and dismissing it in turn, playing it at times — smiles, tears, pats, punches — to work out the right reaction from a somewhat reluctant public but never for its own sake. When he pumped it full of drugs, it wasn't to give a treat, it was a means to an end. Now his body is putting in a request for its long-due wages. After twenty years or so of humble servicing, his body demands joy for itself and another. And Sherlock doesn't know how to meet the bill.

**4. ... and D for Drunk**

Christmas Eve looming up and there _must_ be an answer, Sherlock thinks, stepping out of the Park into Baker Street. The street is its current soft carnival of lighted windows and beribonned fences and instead of crossing to 221B Sherlock finds himself taking a stroll along the happy sight.

Let him admit it : log fire apart, 221B is hardly festive. Mrs Hudson fought the good fight in the previous days, stopping short of golden rings and dancing gentlemen but resolutely sticking holly sprigs wherever she saw a gap, down to Sherlock's pointillist wall decor. Sherlock was not amused. But then, Sherlock was _never_ amused by Christmas and sees no reason for a conversion of the heart. It's not even as if there was a Christmas agenda for their beige-and-brown (and now dark green) environment. John, self-sacrificing fool that he is, will spend the next day force-feeding Harry with eggnogg. Sherlock is expected at Mayfair where Mycroft, glaring peace and good will, will carve a Mycroft-like turkey and make him pull crackers with little Cuthbert and Hypathia. Sherlock shivers and stamps his feet, gazing absently into the grocery window and its heaps of warm-coloured goodies.

And the answer strikes.

The aswer is pot-bellied and gold-topped, with a rosy French label. And what better alibi than Christmas to bring the answer home and drink it up with John ? Granted, John doesn't drink. A bevy of factors in his private and professional lives explain that he should depress Angelo with repeated requests for San Pellegrino when Sherlock and he share a post-case medianoche. But he won't refuse a friendly toast, not if he is the John Watson Sherlock has come to love. And then alcohol will do the trick. Oh, clever, clever ! Yes ! Brain bubbling down brain until metabolism cries Mayday and John is ripping off Sherlock's clothes in a pool of champagne-induced lust and —

Bloody hell. The grocer has just dangled a « CLOSED » sign under his nose.

Sherlock rushes to the supermarket. Twice, because this is a two-bottle problem, and then a third time because a crime expert should remember to cover his track. So he buys pâté, fruit, a mini-Christmas tree, chocolates, fish fingers, a cookery book, candles, a bombe glacée, tinsel, a whole roasted chicken and, as an afterthought, tea. By the time he climbs the stairs at 221B, he's having an incipient hangover. The whole scheme is one dull cliché unworthy of his mind. And the bags hurt his arms.

So it comes as a surprise when he makes it through the door and John drops his book with a look of utter shock on his face before rising from his armchair and crossing the space between them. John is stretching out his hands and smiling that unique smile of his, and somehow the smile makes its way to Sherlock's brain, leaving it high and sparkling. All the bags scatter on the floor so that John's arms are now stretched in thin air, but the next moment Sherlock's body has filled the gap and Sherlock's mouth is investigating the smile, his own arms twined around John's Shetland-clad shoulders and waist. John, true to character, assists the investigation to the best of his capacity until the smile has dissolved in urgent moans and gasps and the case is closed. (So is the door – later.)

The Christmas end of night finds two men birth-naked and laughing before a warm fire and a hot mug of tea. And two bottles of champagne, still full. (The milk carton is empty but this, as Mr Kipling would say, is another story.)

**5. E for Estranged**

It is the vacant look that goes to his heart, what remains of his heart, blowing on the flame. Moriarty has done a splendid job : there was no better way of burning him.

John stops on the threshold and looks at Sherlock's body sprawled on the couch. The slippers and dressing gown are identical. The pose is identical, and for one split second John's eyes flick to the wall but the wall here is uniform glazed surface, cornering Sherlock. Sherlock's own glazed eyes turn to John as the latter kneels before the couch.

In the winter room, John meets a few people. Some days he comes in to the sound of Lestrade's voice, slow and precise, detailing his latest case. Or there is Mycroft, talking to the nurses, or Mrs Hudson with the skull in her hands. Sherlock lies on the couch and gazes at the wall, the vacant wall.

When John comes, Sherlock looks at John. John raises Sherlock's hands from his lap and wraps them in his own, bending to kiss his cheek. He tells Sherlock « I'll take you home soon » but Sherlock's eyes do not seem to care for the words. They remain attached to John's face, the young rugged features, the close-cropped hair and buzz of voice, and sometimes John thinks – it is up to him to think now – that Sherlock is trying to tie a connection, to infer a truth about John and him. The truth is wrestling John too, but he has learnt self-control in the arid fields of Farah and Nimruz and knows that Sherlock must work his salvation alone, if salvation there be.

John rises to go, turns around and lashes at the wall with his left hand. The pain is dull and will not do any good but it is all he can do, brand the wall with hope and rage, before he turns from the room and limps out into the vast white hall, the vacant world.

**6. F for Father**

« You'd have liked him. » Midnight in Sherlock's room, with the half-closed shutters letting in a shimmer of moon. « And he'd have liked you, if only for sticking to a London flat. He was London's official biographer, you know. An urban historian, the best in his field. Mother hated the town, said the barbarians had come up to Mayfair, but Dad loved it. Used to stalk London like a jealous husband, day in day out – in fact, it was the only game he played with his sons. Hm, well, with me. Mycroft was more of an indoor slug. » Sherlock chuckles a little and carries on, his eyes on the ceiling where the street shadows are making their way, sped by the moon. « When I was home from boarding-school, that's when he took me out, hail, rain or shine, and disentangled London for me. Walked me from the maze of lawyers' courts near Westminster to the red-clay Southwark docks and back. Once he showed me the fossils of starfish on the plinth of King James's statue. And we played the game. »

John props himself up on an elbow so he can brush a lock of dark hair out of Sherlock's steady eyes. « What game ? »

« Kim's game. We'd be walking down a street and he would clap a hand on my eyes, without warning, and I had to remember ten things about the street. It could be anything – a broken window or a lion-shaped door-knocker, the uneven pavement under our feet, the smell of elderflower from a garden we had just passed. If I could make it, we went to Fortnum and Mason's for tea. »

« Sounds really great. »

« Mmm. He was a voyeur and a scholar and a realist. The tales he told me about London – they were not fairy tales, so he kept them outdoors. Once he pointed to a church where they had entombed a parrot alive out of superstition. And then, the Black Death and the Great Fire of 1666, and Jack the Ripper. I was enthralled. I... » Sherlock's voice trails off into the penumbra and John takes it upon himself to have the last word. « You cared. »

Silence answers the word, then – « Caring was no good. Can you tell why ? »

Yes he can. The science of deduction may not be John's forte but his profession has taught him that the human body yields its own hints and clues willingly enough. His lover's body is no exception : John's fingers answer for him, tracing feathery lines on Sherlock's pallid skin, nearly opaline at the dead of night. Leukemia, one genetic evil among others, and Dr. Watson prays angrily that it may lie dormant in Holmes's son till Doomsday.

Sherlock's eyes still follow the horizontal shadows, too blurred and fast to be identified.

« Mother kept saying that I should take a decent job for his sake. Harped on and on, how I owed it to him, he'd had such great hopes for me. Clever mother, knowing better than to speak for herself. »

« That doesn't make it a lie. »

« Doesn't it ? Sometimes I wish it did. »

Sherlock shifts on the bed so that he faces John and John can stare at his lover's tell-tale face, unguarded at last. He acts, then, since Sherlock will never make the gesture on his own. Clapping a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, he rolls him over towards him and moves up the hand, slipping his fingers under the dark tumble of hair. Sherlock's face is burrowed against his chest when John's mouth bends to his ear. He waits for the last shadow to pass, then speaks. « Trust me. He's not disappointed. »

**7. G for Good Impressions**

« A part-time practice in Soho. I _see. _» says Lady Holmes, and rings for tea.

« Found yourself a dick, Johnny Boy ? » says Harry, and laughs resonantly.

« That's a nice tie you have » says Lady Holmes, then adds « Harrods ? »

« I'll bet he's TOP value » says Harry — before she winks and nods.

« Isn't the Army your true calling ? » says Lady Holmes, and stares.

« What's he doing with my fucking phone ? » says Harry, and glares.

« Boys must sow their wild oats » says Lady Holmes, all stoical charm.

« Thought you'd go for the stocky type » says Harry, flexing an arm.

« We keep Christmas a family affair » says Lady Holmes, and pats a corgi.

« _You told him about my constipation trouble_? » Bang goes Harry's sherry.

[...]

« A high-functioning sodomite, Mother » says Sherlock, glancing at the clock.

« No. The difference is, _I_'m loved » says John, and stands up to kiss Sherlock.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2 H to M

_Spoilers for part 2 : ASIP in "Happy Ending" and "Inference", TGG in "Kiss"._

_Ratings : "Kiss" is closer to M though still not very graphic. I think. _

**8. H for Happy Ending**

1. _Once upon a time, there was a woman who was bored_.

In all of Sherlock's cases, there is a story before the story – broken and secret, waiting for him to join its sharp edges together and make it whole. He is drawn to each story like a child raising his hopes at bedtime, and so far he has managed to piece them all. But in Mother's case the tale keeps cracking apart, perhaps because he does not want to hear the whole story.

He keeps one shard in a corner of his brilliant mind where it strikes a glint now and then, beckoning him to the past.

His fifth Christmas, and he has just discovered that he can now see eye to eye with the pear-shaped keyhole on the library door. The hole is filled with chalky morning light and as Sherlock peeps into the light, it shows him Mother standing before a shelf of books and putting a needle to her arm. Years later, he will remember how the dark-leathered books turning their backs on the scene set off a pure white gleam in the glass syringe poised above the red dot, where Mother's skin had broken under the needle. The tricolour scene is eerie and _new_, and Sherlock gazes on in captivation until a tall hand drops on his neck, shoving him aside, and his father shatters the scene.

_2. She birthed a son, and he grew up to be tall and beautiful. And bored._

Father increases the surveillance and the scene fades into shards. As he grows up, Sherlock can feel Mother's quiet eyes on him, scanning his dark hair and white relentless face with a hybrid of fear and longing — because he is so much like her in all his brilliance and impatience, yet still young enough to escape. And she does not want a reminder of what she used to be.

When he is twenty she pushes him away, the apple of her eye ; tells him to go to London and study ; tells him in a jagged hush that she will keep his heart, or he too will fall in love and grow to death.

He goes in London and locks himself in a book-lined room. It does not take five years before he is standing in front of his bathroom mirror, looking into his mother's eyes as he bares his arm to another red mark. Mycroft increases the surveillance but Sherlock escapes once again, finding unexpected shelter in a Scotland Yard office.

« I now live among the little men », he tells Mother in the mirror. « They're nice, but they're no good. They trudge and trudge, and sometimes they come up with a nice shiny case, but then it's over and I lie down and shut my eyes. What shall I do ? »

Mother's eyes look at him, filled with clarity and taut silver nerves, unanswering.

_3. And then the prince came, and shared the apple._

Others have tried to shatter the glass casement in which he lives. Some, like Donovan, by throwing stones repeatedly, others by tapping a shy finger like Molly. He smiles at them behind the hard glitter, not caring whether they bleed or shrug.

Until John Watson shoots a cabbie across _two_ glass partitions and Sherlock finds himself wide awake and trembling for the first time in years.

This must be another story in the making, but so far Sherlock hasn't made head or tail of the shards. They include tea for two and heads in the fridge, and watching John watch the little people on TV without being bored, and hearty races across London, and sharing the mirror with John in the morning. There is no way the story makes sense, and Sherlock wonders if one day, he will be able to look back and say : this is it. This is the whole tale.

But then the story would have come to an end, and he does not want that. Better let let John type it then, one letter at a time, so the tale can have a happy open ending. After all, they live in the modern age.

**9. I for Inference.**

« Getting there, are we ? Here's your tea. »

« ... Hmm ? »

« Three out of eight. Pretty good shot but pretty is as pretty does, as our firing instructor used to say. »

« John. Are you under the illusion that you can read my mind by holding a teapot and spouting random enigmatic sentences ? »

« Nope. Doesn't take a mind-reader to see that you've just tried to crack my new password and failed. Sugar ? »

« ¨Pass the skull. And it doesn't take a Boolean operator to figure that two and a half minutes wouldn't be enough for the task, so why would I waste them on your computer ? This electric kettle of yours is no good, by the way. It rumbles. Loudly. And it won't grow mycotoxins. It's a liability. »

« Your diversion tactics are a bit not good, you know. »

« While your smug little quips are this side of dull. Aren't you supposed to be elsewhere for tea ? »

« Ah, now we're getting there. So. Want to hear me deduce ? »

« Home entertainment, live. How can I refuse ? »

« Good. Hmm, let me think. You're right, two and a half minutes wouldn't be enough to let you crack my code — »

« They would actually, if I put my mind to it. Given that E is the most common letter in the English alphabet — »

« — but they'd be more than enough for you to to test _one_ word, pass or fail. Why would you want to do that ? And why now, instead of waiting till I'd gone to Sarah's for tea as I always do on Saturdays ? But wait. Rewind. It is tea-time and I'm not at Sarah's. You could ask me why but no, instead you ask for tea and wait till I'm out of the room. Recent experience taught you that people chose names for passwords, verbal mementos of those who rank first in their hearts, dead or alive. And so, urged by the need to know, you switch on my laptop and type _sarah_. No access. You turn off the computer and leap back onto the sofa. Cue John with teapot and blissfully ignorant smile. Unfortunately, your mind has missed a small but significant something. »

« ... »

« The H key has a tendency to come loose. Old PC, second-hand material. You pressed it back, but from where I stand I can see that it's upside down. You didn't notice it because H is a symetrical letter, but it's a little off center as on many PCs. It should stand on the upper left corner of the key, not the lower right. »

« ... So I got three letters out of eight ? »

« We broke up last week. You could have asked, you know. »

« Not _harry_, then. »

« No, not _harry_. Shall I add insult to injury and give you a clue ? »

« John... »

« It does have an E in it. Drink up now, your tea's getting cold and I'm _not_ rising from this sofa again. »

**10. J for Justice.**

He usually waits until the last moment, which can be any moment – say, when all the tea has leaked into his cup, leaving it cloudy cold, and morning switches on the grocer's electric sign across Baker Street — before reaching for his phone._ Eyes' precise colour ? Footage is no bloody use. SH_.

Texting is second nature to Sherlock because it exposes more than anything else the doings of his mind. Up to now, his texts were dazzling shortcuts. They squeezed facts and syntax into a flash of sense, and he would wait impatiently for the answer to light the next Golem's leap to the all-important. And now ? Now texts are — fragments.

The answer always comes after a few hearbeats or a few hours. _Straight blue. Does this help ?_

Not much. Why did they never think of photographing each other in the twelve weeks' span of their shared tenancy ? All he has is a few rolls of surveillance footage, where a black-and-white mannikin limps, then walks and runs in his stride. Harry collected John's ID once notified and nearly slapped his face when he came up with his request under the pretext of a memorial blog entry. Sherlock reaches for his phone. _No. I am deleting and I don't want to delete_. _SH_.

Heart doesn't, while brain is already pushing in new data — just as Mrs Hudson will enter a half-spare half-cluttered room come next March and think sadly, absently, this was Dr. Watson's room. _That film he wanted to watch at Christmas, and we watched « Science in Action ». SH_. The texts are little jabs from brain to heart because neither paid enough attention once John was tenanted in heart : what logic was there in commiting him to memory then ? He was part of there he was self-evident. Now brain and heart commit the answers from Sherlock's mobile to his laptop where they hardly stain the open page. _« It's a Wonderful Life ». Would he want you to do that ? Would he say Good ?_

The answers always come, articulate, helpless, helpful though Sherlock knows half of them already. So they rank a notch higher than fortune cookies in his esteem though he only reads the first half and memorizes it on his computer. The annoying little koans he refuses to process. _More pictures. You can get them for me. SH_. John's mug when he moved in was blue – no, purple – or was it blue ? That razor nick grazed the left side of his chin – but John was checking it in the bathroom mirror when Sherlock quipped him from the shower – so was he quipping the reflection or the man ?_ I could. How long till you beg for the next shot ?_

Perhaps this was what Moriarty meant by sentencing him to burn-out. Perhaps it is something that had to happen to him after he rubbed out so many people into paper-thin dolls to be stored and forgotten until they could be of use. Perhaps his brother will have an answer. Sherlock stares at the body parts on the tabletop and reaches for his phone.

_Is it justice that I cannot remember ?_

**11. K for Kiss.**

They cannot say when the one ends for the other to begin.

One moment, Sherlock's hobble across the beige tiles has slid to a halt and his knees buckle under him, tumbling him gunless into John's lap and quickly raised arms. John's arms meet Sherlock in an instinctive attempt to spare him concussion as he is still leaning against a cement partition. No sooner have they clasped flesh, however, that Sherlock _pours_ himself into the space between, pushing John back none too gently and shielding him from hip to shoulder in an awkward, graceless, late gesture.

John can hear Sherlock's breath, _ha, ha, he,_ in the naked whorl of his ear. So he pushes his hands past Sherlock's forearms and along his ribs to claim his share in the fear, in the shielding. They wait, but the madman's high-keyed voice does not return to top the sound of breath, now mingling with the perceptible sough of the water. John can make out the turbulent surface of the pool past Sherlock's shoulder and as their fear slips away, he finds that his body is keeling back and forth in its turn, catching at a pulse before it can raise itself from stupor. Sherlock is still straddling his lap, his face crumpled against John's neck, and John's gloved fingers dig into the slim haunches to push him solidly into the pulse. Sensation is thawing back now, the soft itch of leather on his hands, damp red chasing damp blue along the cubicle doors, Sherlock's shirt buttons against his exposed collarbone and Sherlock's thighs tightening their grip — on — the pulse —

John groans. He doesn't mean too, no longer cares what he means. The rhombs of white light across the water are all he can see as they rock into each other, faster now, the primal rubbing that once sparked fire out of stone. _Hard, hard_ – _ah_ -_– in our clothes - fuck, we – yes — _

Bodies no longer a hoard of specimens. Blood no longer a count of cells and platelets, but the red life pushing at their veins. Heat builds up messily, too raw to be good and too precious to be pain, selfish rutting heat yet something they have to do together, so _together_ is the last connexion in John's brain before his orgasm jolts him loose and Sherlock's breath morphs into cry.

The water ripples on in the confined vastness of the pool.

John exhales deeply as he has learnt to do. Once, twice. Then he lowers his hands to the ground, a prompt for Sherlock to lift his head and sit back on his heels. Sherlock obeys after a moment, and John looks at him unblinkingly— taking in the clear dazed eyes and mussed hair, and forehead still chafed from the friction it endured against his cardiganed shoulder. It is as if Sherlock's face had been made tender by their act and as John smiles at it in fond wonder, Sherlock's mouth opens with a soft, wet sound and dips towards him.

The kiss is gentle, almost chaste. Mouths dabbing at each other, open to the taste of breath and saliva, yet hesitant to take advantage. The tip of a tongue touches the inner seam of John's lips and John hums approval. He craddles Sherlock's face in his palms as the kiss is deepened, both mouths smiling now. The kiss is slow, unnecessary, anachronistic, gratuitous – the kiss is all-important, John understands, if they want more than a testimony that they will walk out up and alive.

Rutting made sense, yes. But this — ah, this makes everything else meaningful.

**12. L for Literature**

Sherlock's knowledge of Literature is, to speak bluntly, nil.

A fact that surprises John not a little when he first confronts it, given his flatmate's grammatical fetish and reluctance to indulge in the more plebeian forms of entertainment. Yet there it is, staring John in the face as stolidly as the eyeball family in their Tupperware : the Classics are a blank screen to Sherlock and Sherlock couldn't care less. If questioned, he would say that, musical scores aside, anything printed B.C. (Before the Chip) is unwelcome to his memory.

John cares – a little. Crap telly proved a first-class nerve soothener after Afghanistan, but it only comes second to the company of books. Books have helped him as long as he can remember — high-walling him against Harry's barbs, refreshing his night shifts at St Bart's, steeling his faith when his first affairs ended with a whimper rather than a bang. Later, upon leaving for the bare Afghan fields, John brought a stowaway in his kit : _An English Garden of Verse_. Reading at night, he felt the steady verse rise in his head like Japanese rice-paper partitions — thin and transient, yet dulling a little the mad monotonous staccato of day until he closed his eyes and invaded another country, however briefly.

But all that was before he came to live with Sherlock who puts reason before rhyme and facts before fiction.

The first intimation of Sherlock's ignorance comes a few weeks after their first case, as they share a Sunday brunch in one of Sherlock's favorite cafés. Their talk is Sunday talk, eddying lazily from this to that and the other until it bumps against the Ur-scene that sealed their association — poor clever adulterous Jennifer Wilson struck in the pink of life. « A regular Bovary » John sighs, only to hear Sherlock answer that the dead woman's genital apparatus was of no importance to the case, pass the sugar.

John blinks. Then he puts it to the bar's noisy background and passes the sugar. But when more weeks have run their course and his lips are grazing Sherlock's navel fervently, pausing only to murmur « O my America, my newfound land », Sherlock's comment leaves no doubt that he is unflattered (« Stop babbling and get on with it »). « It's Donne » John explains, unwilling to break the mood yet reluctant to let his compliment pass unnoticed. « What ? No it's not. You're still clothed. »

And that, to resume a prosaic tone, clinches it.

They do get on and John is happier than he's ever been, but Sherlock's indifference to literature still itches. John tries a few subterfuges, such as getting him interested in Wilkie Collins — a resonant whimper. Giving Sherlock a seven-hundred pages Victorian whodunit amounts to giving the Dalai Lama a Dolce & Gabana coupon, with the difference that His Holiness would probably thank you.

But John is a soldier and an optimist, so he takes Sherlock to the Old Vic's new staging of _MacBeth_ which has been praised by all and sundry in the cultural press. « You'll like it, it's a tale of sound and fury » he promises, wisely omitting the « told by an idiot » part. And indeed, Sherlock is not bored – not bored at all. In fact, he spends the two intervals and most of the last act trusting John with his own theory as to who really murdered Duncan since MacBeth was obviously under the influence when testifying to Lady MacBeth. By the last curtain call, Sherlock is effervescent in his certainty that the deed was done by the Porter, who is none other than the Third Witch masquerading in drag on behalf of her saphic lover, Lady M., and of course _this_ explains why we never get to see her children since the birth-strangled babes mentioned in act I...

(John still wonders how they themselves made it out of their row alive.)

Well, so much for Educating Sherlock. John scoops a niche for himself in the lower bookcase, between the Encyclopedia of Neuroscience and the late Hudson's collection of _Hustler_, and that is that. And poetry still helps when Sherlock becomes abstracted in a new case, sans food, sans tea, sans John, so that John calls on Yeats for reassurance...

_a mind_

_That nobleness made simple as a fire,_

_With beauty like a tighened bow, a kind_

_That is not natural in an age like this,_

_Being high and solitary and most stern_...

... until Sherlock snaps out of abstraction and whizzes John to a new crime scene, launching into his serial infuriater act with gusto. « Toes. Nails. Cracks in the varnish – stop gawking, John, of course you're looking for minute injection holes. » John grabs a foot and fills his lungs. He has found that Lamaze deep-breathing, though devised for pregnant women, works wonders in Sherlock's vicinity (pity Anderson did not take kindly to the hint). « _True, a new mistress now I chase_ » John mutters as he bends over the big toe, « _The first foe in the field_... »

Somebody clears his throat above and he raises his eyes to a meek bulldog face under a thatch of grey hair. « ... _I could not love thee, Dear, so much_, » Detective Inspector Lestrade recites unexpectedly, « _Loved I not Murder more_. » (1)

A plump heel flops to the ground as two grown men erupt in undignified titters. Their mirth, alas, is short-lived as Sherlock cuts in with a voice that could easily fuel all thirty-five of St Bart's' refrigeration cells. « Will you two quit stalling and get to work ? There's a criminal afoot ! »

And this, John thinks, could well be Literature's best service rendered – providing him with a store of passwords Sherlock cannot quite crack so they leave him not a little jealous, while John knows that they always lead back to Sherlock – in faith and joy.

(1) John and Greg are quoting Richard Lovelace's _Ode to War,_ whose last line reads « Loved I not Honour more ».

**13. M for Misconstrue**

To everything there is a season, and a time to every activity under the heavens. A time to be bored, and a time to be high a time to find a planted corpse, and a time to pluck up clues leading to the why and wherefore of that which has been planted.

A time to speak, and a time to keep silent a time to get, and a time to lose a time to move, and a time to remain remotionless in one's chair, half-way between fire and tea, watching John cat-sit Mrs Hudson's pet ferret — _again_.

Most ferrets are at best half-converts when it come to hobnobbing with the human species. While this one seems rather fond of Mrs Hudson, he made it clear from the beginning that she might provide a roof, food and a cautious dose of motherly concern, but that his breathing room was a thing sacred and not to be trifled with. Mrs Hudson complied happily, bringing her _protégé_ (or _prodigy_, according to how familiar you are with Mrs Hudson's French) to Baker Street where he settled immediately, made a mess of her belongings and, to the surprise of everyone acquainted with his sort, developped a manic attachment to the first man he met on the premises.

It could be that the ferret smelt a whiff of Afghanistan on John upon their mutual introduction and found himself nostalgic for the homeland of his fathers. Unless it was John's native kindness that channelled the ferret's curiosity away from the scraps of paper and bits of string it chases endlessly round the place. Whatever the cause, the ferret has now bonded with John – a highly unsafe step, as John's sister never tires of warning him, since ferrets are well known for their sharp mouths and trigger-happy reflexes.

But John doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he worships the ferret's impenetrable ways in a way that is truly annoying in a steady, sensible man. When looking after his charge, he will follow the little freak in all its rounds and gambols, tut-tutting if it detects the severed thumb under the wobbly tableleg, yet never impatient, never angry. He will fetch milk and cajole the ferret until it consents to take a few sips. Then they lie down upon the sofa, John on his back and the ferret on John, stretching his unnaturally lanky body so that he can put a leathery paw on John's collarbone. The damn ferret basks in proprietary pride as John pets its dark coat of fur, softly praising its beauty and cleverness and —

« Shall I take him to my room ? »

« What ? »

« That's the second time I've heard you sigh. I can take a hint, Sherlock. If you want the living-room to yourself— »

« I never said — »

« No, but you _looked_. I'm a doctor, remember ? Body language. Clearly, you wanted to be left well alone with your work. »

All the firelight is pinpointed in the ferret's eyes as he stares triumphantly at Sherlock, roosting on John's shoulder.

« Well, I didn't ! »

« Yes you did. »

« Didn't. »

« Did. »

« Not. »

This highly constructive exchange is cut off by the sound of hurried steps on the stairs and the door clicking open as Mrs Hudson pops in a beaming face. « Here I am ! Come to Mummy, Rikki. Did he behave ? »

« Perfectly. » John spares Sherlock a last glare and crosses the room, the ferret still splayed against his heart. « He's such a lovely chap. »

« Oh, I'm so glad. But then he's extraordinarily fond of you – isn't Rikki fond of John, dear ? »

Sherlock's bedroom door answers rather sharply for Sherlock.

« Oh, my. Someone is feeling a teensy bit jealous tonight. »

« Yes, and showing it like a ten-year old. Christ ! I'd let him play with Rikki any time, only he's been pretty edgy all evening and the last thing I want is for him to experiment first hand on arterial hemorrhage. »

Mrs Hudson does not answer at once, perhaps because she's still trying to disassociate Rikki's claws from John's jumper. « No, no, dear. » She shakes her head, stepping back to the door as her pet utters the closest thing to a wail a ferret can produce. « That's not _quite_ what I meant. Good night ! »

Gladys Hudson is a wise woman and a nice woman, and she's a woman who knows her Bible. A time to speak, and a time to keep silent : her boys will work out their own answers in time – with a little help from all creatures great and small.

_To be continued_


End file.
